


exposure

by tender_anaphylaxis



Category: Mabinogi
Genre: Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Gore, Hard vore, Immortals, Inappropriate Use of the Divine Light, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-10 14:35:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20853380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tender_anaphylaxis/pseuds/tender_anaphylaxis
Summary: "I heard about something," Teague says after a while. "Something the other Milletians talk about. I've never heard about it, but it's called an allergy. It's why some people seem sick all the time in spring; their bodies treat harmless things like an infection, and try to sweat them out." Talvish looks at him and tilts his head, as if unsure where this is going. Teague goes on. "They say the best way to feel better about that is exposure, especially by eating honey with pollen in it, or honeycomb, or something like that."The weight of what he is suggesting settles in Teague's gut like a rock. His hands shake."What are you saying?""I'm saying you have an allergy, Talvish, and you need an inoculation."---alternate title: that's not even how allergies work, stop





	exposure

Teague visits the Sanctum daily.

It’s not for long, and with the Moon Gates open in Avalon again, it’s not a long trip, but he feels like it’s something he needs to do. He prays a little, talks a little, and leaves, feeling his longing settle to a reluctant, bearable weight, at least until it’s time to make his pilgrimage again.

Talvish is never there. The Sanctum is always empty, quiet, and still. 

Talvish is never there, until he is.

At first, he appears as a mirage, shimmering in the heat-haze of Avalon's summer with brightness that makes Teague's eyes sting. He can barely believe his eyes as Talvish slowly seeps into being, like a vision, like he's coming across some great distance in bits and pieces. Whene he finally appears, it's as Teague knew him -- soft curls and soft eyes, wearing his arming tunic, his plate mail abandoned. He hasn't abandoned his divinity; his presence still fills the empty sanctum, overpowering and bright. He just... chose to leave the splendor behind for now. Relief blooms in Teague's chest like a shock of cold water, bleeding happy numbness into every corner of his body. And then he's skipping disbelief into pure joy, rushing forward, heart leaping, bursting with relief and love and--

Talvish puts up a hand to stop him, body tensed a spring as soon he crosses the threshhold into his space. Joy turns to hurt. Talvish looks at him with pain in his deep blue eyes, and regret.

"I--I'm sorry," are the first words out of his mouth, and they feel like a sucker punch.

"S-sorry for what?" Teague responds, voice hoarse with tears. 

"I can't -- come close."

It feels as if a knife has been plunged into Teague's gut.

"Why?" He asks, softly, taking a half-step closer despite himself. He can't help it. His body longs to be closer, closer. "What's wrong? Talvish, talk to me. I've missed you so much--"

"That's the  _ problem _ ," Talvish snaps, and that, too, is another knife, and Teague flinches back. The strain in his voice doesn't seem directed at him, but it's full of frustration, aimless and seething. "You need to -- get over it. Get over me. This -- we aren't compatible anymore, at all. On a fundamental level--"

"Is this because of the Light?" Teague asks, heedless of Talvish's evasions. eyes flashing as he looks him in the eye. "Just -- I don't care if you need to keep your distance for now, just -- just talk to me. Please. You're acting like a child."

"N-- _ No _ , I'm acting like the _protector _I was assigned to be, so I can't be --c-commiserating with--" Talvish looks away, takes a deep breath. He's more agitated than Teague has seen him in -- in a long time. His heart aches at the memory. When Talvish speaks again, he's calmer. "I can't be -- speaking with otherworldly... influences. My whole being riots against it. Even now, I feel  _ ill _ . I can't be near you, Teague, even though I -- more than anything -- want to."

Teague is quiet for a while, taking that in. He sits down against the First Sword's coffin again, and motions Talvish also to sit -- though he still has to maintain his wide berth, he does. Just this helps them feel a little more -- at ease. 

"I heard about something," Teague says after a while. "Something the other Milletians talk about. I've never heard about it, but it's called an allergy. It's why some people seem sick all the time in spring; their bodies treat harmless things like an infection, and try to sweat them out." Talvish looks at him and tilts his head, as if unsure where this is going. Teague goes on. "They say the best way to feel better about that is exposure, especially by eating honey with pollen in it, or honeycomb, or something like that."

The weight of what he is suggesting settles in Teague's gut like a rock. His hands shake.

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying you have an allergy, Talvish, and you need an inoculation."

* * *

Teague takes a deep breath. This doesn't have to be complicated. An offering of flesh, the acceptance in kind; just the kind of thing you hear about in myths, in the old tales, of accordances between gods. It doesn't have to be wrong, or taboo -- these were concepts the two of them had supposedly transcended. But despite all his ascensions, with Talvish kneeling before him, blue eyes fixing him on the spot with love and anticipation, Teague feels so very mortal.

Teague swallows dryly. He lifts the knife, and begins to carve into the flesh above his heart. Talvish watches as he suppresses his flinch. His eyes are alight again, no longer the cool, calm ocean he was familiar with, and being looked at like that -- it makes his mouth dry and his throat tight. Or perhaps that's the shock. Teague can't meet with intensity like that, has to close his eyes as the knife glides through his flesh. It pulls away from the rest of him wetly, with a fresh burst of pain as it rubs across raw nerve endings. As a Milletian, Teague is used to being hurt and wounded, beyond imagination sometimes, but doing it so deliberately, so methodically -- it's something else. Teague opens his eyes briefly to lower the slice of meat, thin and dripping blood, to Talvish's waiting lips. As the young god raises his lips to the red, wet flesh, the expression on his face is nothing short of rapturous. Those lovely blue eyes slide shut again like he is tasting of communion wine, dark juices running down his chin. 

Teague hadn't expected it to be like this. He's hard. A flush rides high and hot on his cheeks. The intimacy of the act is overwhelming. He closes his eyes again. He closes his eyes, so he's not prepared for a gentle hand to close around his and pull the knife back, he's not prepared for the feathery firmness of wings bracketing him in, he's not prepared for lips at the wound, for teeth. He squirms fitfully, and God, but Talvish moans like he’s hurt, deep and low in his chest. 

“I-I’m sorry,” is the first thing he says, out all in a rush. “You’ve given so much. I shouldn’t ask for more. But I want --” Teague’s body throbs with pain and arousal, and his blood stains the front of Talvish’s barding. His teeth scrape up the cut, but don’t bite in, and they are stained with blood too, red, and oh, how pretty it looks against his skin. Talvish, stained with him. He shudders, and Teague’s body shakes in sympathy. For a long moment, they just stay there, pressed into each other, staring into each others eyes as their breathing quickens.

He wants more.

“Take all you need,” Teague breathes, harsh and desperate. “Take everything. I trust you.” 

Talvish  _ moans _ again, and sinks his teeth into the wound, catching on the edge of it, biting down and  _ tearing. _ The meat shouldn’t come away so easily, but it does, muscle fibers snapping and gouging the neat laceration into a messy, bloody chunk of missing flesh. Blood bubbles out from Talvish’s teeth as he exhales sharply, then inhales again, scarfing down the meat like a starving man, desperate and needy. And God, it hurts, but Teague’s body sings with bliss, the reverent way Talvish holds him, the closeness, the lightheadedness as blood drips down and stains the both of them deep red. He bites deeper, red and red and red, he bites and tears and something snaps and Teague can’t move his arm anymore. He lifts the other one to tangle in Talvish’s hair, fingers carding through those beautiful, soft curls, and he tugs him closer. Closer. No matter how close he got, close wasn’t close enough.

Close enough to taste him. Close enough to keep him from ever leaving again. Teague moans softly as Talvish rips into him once more, his limp arm spasming as tendons are pulled and severed. Teague opens his eyes, and as if they’re bound by fate, Talvish looks up at him then, eyes alight with wild fire and burning with rapture, with reverence, with _love._ _Oh, _and Teague wants to cry, and tears slip down his cheeks as soon as he even processes the thought. It’s so much. It’s too much. It’s not enough. He tastes himself on Talvish's lips as they crash together, as violent and inevitable as colliding stars, and for a moment the kiss burns like it must burn his partner, tasting brilliant and alien, incandescing copper in his mouth.

Blood runs down his chin, his own blood, overflowing from Talvish's mouth. He's still hard, and he ruts against him blindly, seeking any kind of friction, anything. The god above him separates from the kiss to shush him gently, to pet his hair and stroke down his body to push down his robes, baring his needy cock to the sacred air of the sanctum. Even now, hovering at the edge of consciousness, Teague moans, a pitiful, rattling breath. It feels  _ transgressive. _ But they're gods now, are they not -- it's up to  _ them _ to decide what is sin and what is consecration. Talvish takes him in his hand and Teague cries out, groping blindly with his good arm and tangling in Talvish's hair. He goes in for another bite, even while jacking him off, and Teague's mind short-circuits. The pleasure of his blood-slick hand on him and the exquisite pain of his teeth coming down on the as-yet unmarked flesh between his neck and shoulder--it was beyond bliss. He rips off a bloody chunk and squeezes down on him, and Teague cries out his release as everything goes black.

He fades in and out of consciousness after that. Talvish keeps going, can't stop, whispering apologies and praise and prayers to Teague's half-conscious form as he rips in with fingernails, with teeth, with tongue. If he was hesitant to lose control when Teague was yet conscious, now that his body was failing he's near-animal in his need, and what remains of the milletian's proprioception informs him that his carcass jerks with the violence of his feasting. But it's good, good, and there must be something  _ wrong _ with him to feel that way, but as long as the blessing of the soul stream forbids him to die, he may as well enjoy the ride. Eventually, Talvish winds down, panting, and at this point, Teague has stopped being able to see him, but he's dimly aware of what's going on around him regardless. He stays close -- closer than Teague thought possible, and it doesn't seem a strain for him. He treats his wounds with the divine light, miracle sparking against his ruined form, and he feels himself knitting back together in the times he's aware. It's not what he'd call  _ comfortable _ \-- a chilling awareness of muscle sliding back into place over bitten-clean bones -- but it is effective. 

When he awakens fully, he's whole again, a sheet thrown over him and Talvish nearby. He's got a fresh tabard on, Teague notices. Any traces of their ritual have been scrubbed from the sanctum floor, and Talvish is besides him, but doesn't seem able to look.

"You're awake," He says eventually. A flush hovers over his cheeks -- exertion or embarrassment?"

"Yes," Teague responds, just as awkward. "M-my clothes?"

"Ruined." Talvish manages to smile ruefully at him. "I -- I'm sorry. For all of that. I went too far, and you shouldn't have had to do that it all. Why did you... "

"Don't be stupid," Teague says, sitting up. The sanctum spins around him; he must still be missing a lot of blood. Still, he leans over, winding his arms around Talvish's shoulders. "I'd do it again, and more if it meant you could stay with me."

Talvish seems able to look at him then, turning in his grip. "You -- after everything I've--"

"Shut up," Teague breathes, draped over the young god, feeling anemic and weightless. "I'm too dizzy to argue with you. I won't be able to walk for a bit, so you'd better not be planning on going anywhere."

Talvish looks at him, hands hovering over his body -- the body he'd so recently ripped apart -- and, somehow, manages to laugh and pull him closer, allowing Teague to rest his head against his shoulder. Teague feels some of the nervous tension he'd felt since he'd woken up melt away like fat on the tongue. "That's -- so very like you. I don't know why I said anything. Nowhere soon, my dear. You should rest."

He does.

**Author's Note:**

> really this is some of the fluffiest shit i've ever written and if that doesn't say something about who i am as a person i don't know what does
> 
> twitter: @yogoshite


End file.
